


Holmium

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Periodic Tales [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Big Brother Mycroft, Blackmail, Case Fic, Criminal networks, Drug-Induced Sex, Extortion, Gen, Homelessness, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Mycroft, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8049646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: Holmium 67 Ho 1 64.93 Sherlock has always loved the fact that the 67th element is named Holmium. It was discovered not once, but twice, independently, in 1878, when a French team identified an unknown element and then a few months later, a Swedish scientist also isolated it, naming it after the Latin name (Holmia) of his hometown, Stockholm. Its compounds in nature, and in nearly all of its laboratory chemistry, are trivalently oxidized, containing Ho(III) ions. In honour of the power of three, this Periodic Tale has three parts, and each part has three bonded elements, with a different POV.





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

_(1)_

"We will find him, Mycroft; don't despair." Doctor Cohen was watching him carefully. She knew better than to give him a reassuring pat on the hand or some physical sign of comfort. This was not a young man who acknowledged a need for such things. But, Esther was worried about his state of mind. He was too tired now to keep up the front that he put up to so many people. For a moment, Esther thought she might be seeing the real person. Not the Lord Holmes, Viscount of Sherrinford, that his mother had raised him to be, nor the brilliant political operator behind the scenes that his father wanted him to be. This was Mycroft stripped bare of all the social graces. Raw, and in pain. Frustrated beyond all measure.

" _Why?_ Why haven't we found him yet? We've done…everything. Every social service, doctor surgery, hospital and police station in the whole of London and everywhere between London and the south coast– every last one of them has his photograph and details. Every homeless charity, every shelter, soup kitchen and support group has been informed. Surely _one_ of them must have come across him?" He rubbed his face with his hands, as if willing more strength into himself.

Esther shared his frustration. "There are two problems in all of that; the first one assumes that Sherlock has been unable to cope on his own. The second is that even if he is coping, he wants to be found. If neither case is true, then it will take some lateral thinking to find him."

Mycroft lifted his face from his hands to look into the kindly eyes of the psychiatrist. He was, at twenty four, remarkably mature and self-possessed, but she could see that he was reaching the end of his tether. He drew breath. "I can understand a panic reaction to the Chemistry master's death. He's never seen a dead body, let alone someone he knew. The shock could have triggered him to run. But, _shock wears off_ \- he'd have gotten over it and knows enough to have contacted someone- the school, Parham- even me, if he was desperate enough. He went with no money, no resources. Every relative, every family contact, every tutor or estate worker he's ever known has been contacted to get in touch the moment he tries to make contact with them. He knows no one else who would hide him or look after him. He's never been independent or on his own. The only reason I can think that would stop him from contacting someone is that he's injured, sick- or worse."

She knew that this was Mycroft's greatest fear- that Sherlock had died at some point in the past five weeks of searching. She tried to reassure him. "But, you've covered that angle; there is no morgue or hospital that does not have his photo and details. If he turned up dead, you'd know."

He grimaced. " _Turned up_ is the operative phrase, Doctor Cohen. What happens if it occurred in a back alley? An abandoned warehouse? A canal? Bodies can lay hidden and undiscovered for a very long time. He could have been dead for weeks and we might never know."

He was seated across the table from her at the Royal Bethlem Hospital, which was where she worked now, with the National Autism Unit at the hospital in Beckenham. She had last seen Sherlock just over a year ago, in the aftermath of his father's funeral, when the school was concerned at his _lack_ of distress about that death. She knew the history between them, so was not surprised, but saw him anyway, in part to shield him from the school's concern. He'd been more _together_ than she'd ever known him, determined to get his A levels, pass the Cambridge Entrance exam and get into Trinity College, so he could continue his chemistry. Despite the somewhat harrowing experience of losing his beloved horse in a barn fire that summer*, he seemed _fine._

But Esther knew that a year was a long time in a teenager's life; anything could have happened to de-stabilise Sherlock, even if on the surface everything seemed to be going along fine. She had called him when he got back from France in the late summer and went to stay with Robert McGarry- just to tell him that if he needed to talk once he got to Cambridge, she'd be happy to do so. He'd sounded fine, if a bit abrupt. "Why would I need to talk to you? I have no further need of your services, Doctor Cohen." She could deal with that annoyance in his tone- it was part and parcel of being a teenager about to go off to university. Nothing he'd said seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, it was remarkably encouraging that it was so ordinary.

Mycroft was now watching her with some intent. "So, Doctor Cohen, since the obvious attempts to find him have not worked, what do you suggest?"

The question puzzled her. "Why do you think I would know more than you would about this?"

He tilted his head a little in surprise, then rather peevishly said, "You are the child psychiatrist. Isn't it your job to decipher the behaviour of your patients?"

She gave a sad smile. "As if it were so easy, with any child. Sherlock is no longer a child, nor is he like any other patient I've ever had or am likely to ever have in the future. So, doubly difficult."

"But, you've studied him, his behaviour on and off for the past five years. Surely that gives you _some_ insight?"

 _He is really grasping at straws now._ "How much contact have you had with Sherlock since he started at Harrow?"

"Directly or through third parties?"

"Face-to-face."

He did not avert his gaze. "As you well know, Doctor Cohen, I have been overseas for most of that time." There was a momentary pause, then he continued. "In all, I've spent seventy three days in the UK since he went to the school. Of those days, I have been under the same roof as he has on thirty two. That doesn't translate into conversations; as you well know, Sherlock can be remarkably reticent when it comes to communication. Even at the funeral last year, we hardly spoke."

That tallied with what she expected. "Phone calls? Letters?"

"Several of the first- always initiated by me- only one of the last. And nothing substantive in either."

That also tallied with Esther's understanding. Sherlock was remarkably reticent, and adept at avoidance. Despite her best efforts, she had never been able to really discover whether it was because Sherlock just didn't feel emotions the same way as neurotypicals, or whether he did but just refused to give anything away, lest it be used against him. Most teenagers were quite tight-lipped about such things, but Sherlock had raised it to an art form. "So, if you had to estimate the number of hours you've spent actually talking to Sherlock during those thirty two days under the same roof, what would it be?"

He did not hesitate- "less than twenty four hours, and a good proportion of that would be on rather mundane matters."

"So, you don't know your brother at all, do you?"

He shook his head. "I knew him when he was a small boy, but…no- I have no idea who he is now. That's why it is proving hard to understand why he has disappeared. "

Now she realised why he had come to see her. She actually did know Sherlock better. And he was recognising that fact. That upset her, for Sherlock's sake, because she certainly did not know him. _He really is alone._

Her face must have betrayed her concern. Mycroft seemed to sense her judgment. "Are you going to help me find him, or not?"

She returned the look with some pique. "Yes, of course I am. But you're going to have to start by parking your assumptions about how helpless or vulnerable he is. He's clever, resourceful and quite determined. He's lived through a lot. Of course that leaves scars. Some of those might be interfering with his ability to reach out to anyone from his past- you included."

She took a deep breath- _how to deliver this without sounding like I am accusing him of being a heartless selfish bastard._ "Maybe, _especially_ you. He will see you as the one who left, the one who gave up on him. When adolescents don't have strong attachment abilities, then they can believe that it doesn't matter to anyone else what they do. Remember that for him empathy is difficult; being able to see how others see him is never going to be his strength. He simply won't understand that anyone would care if he vanished. He won't understand why you would care at all, given that you left. Whatever ties you might have had when he was growing up, he will focus on the past four years. In Sherlock's eyes, McGarry was probably the only once since his mother who has been selflessly interested or supportive – and he's dead. Mrs Walters, the rest of the school staff, me- we are all _paid_ to care. He's not emotionally astute enough to be able to tell the difference between caring and our doing a job. Mind you, most teenagers are like that. It's just even harder for Sherlock to comprehend. So, your expectation that he would reach out to contact someone? Forget that."

Esther watched him take this in, before continuing, "So, the fact that he hasn't done so doesn't mean that he is sick, ill or dead. You have got to stop thinking of him as the little boy you used to know. Let's assume something else than your worst case scenario. Sherlock is not stupid; he is not 'defective'. In fact, he's quite resourceful, as his time at Harrow proved. So, let's consider instead that he's coping with life on the streets, or has actually found some way to get off them. Let's assume that in either case he doesn't want to be found. What then, Mycroft?"

He was trying to think it through. "I still don't understand. No matter what he may think of me, you or the others, why would my brother _want_ to remain in…" he ran out of words for a moment before continuing, "…in squalid poverty, _incognito_ , totally on his own. He's not able to form friendships. What possible reason or logic could lead him to stay out there? He's never had to look after himself. He's not employable- wouldn't have the patience or the boredom threshold to put up with any kind of menial job that would hire him. The school did everything for him- Harrow's routine was just the pattern of enforced stability and daily support he needed to flourish. Cambridge would do the same. Without that structure, he couldn't be able to keep his anxiety under control. He's smart enough to know that."

She had to bite her lip to stop from laughing. "This is _Sherlock_ we are talking about here. Do you really think he _likes_ being 'looked after'?"

"He's not stupid. When the alternative is being cold, wet, miserable and hungry, as well as alone, then he would see the logic of getting help. And, I don't need to remind you about how dangerous it is to be homeless and vulnerable. There are plenty of people who would abuse him for their own illegal purposes. That would _scare_ him. Surely anxiety would lead him back to the security of what he knows."

"You don't know much about teenage boys, do you, Mycroft? It isn't about logic; it's about rebellion. And it doesn't matter if he is scared; he's proving a point to himself. And that resilience that Sherlock has? Well, it could also be seen as pig-headed stubbornness. Maybe, he's still out there because he _prefers_ it, and doesn't mind being scared; it's just a price to be paid."

"Why would he do that?" Mycroft seemed both appalled and puzzled at the scenario she was proposing.

Esther put her elbows on the table, interlaced her fingers together and dropped her chin onto them. "Because he _can_. It's the ultimate two finger salute to you, me and all those people who've ever told him that he can't look after himself."

_(2)_

"I'm not sure, but I'm definitely narrowing it down. He's been seen twice. I got eyes on him the last time. Enough of a look to be about 75% sure it's him." If there was a trace of nervousness in the private investigator's voice, he was trying to suppress it. Jenkins was of average height and build; his non-descript looks helped him blend into the background- a useful attribute in his line of work.

The man at the window of the rundown hotel room was not smiling. In contrast with Jenkins, this man had a physical presence that was highly noticeable. He carried himself with a confidence that bordered on charisma. The PI had no doubt he could be charming, if he wanted to be, but he was making no effort now.

"You are being paid to be _sure_ ; and you know the consequences of failure. Or do I have to repeat myself?" The voice was quiet, but with a menace of steel beneath it. The faintly accented tenor sounded a bit "mid-Atlantic"- like a Brit who had spent too much time in the USA, or an American who was trying to avoid sounding 'too American'.

Jenkins' Cardiff Welsh overlaid with too many years in London was in marked contrast, as he replied "Yeah, but he's a slippery little devil. Works the crowd like a real pro, spotting the wealthy ones."

The taller, better dressed man turned away from the window and walked closer, subjecting Jenkins to a more intense scrutiny. "Describe your most recent sighting to me. I need to understand what is going on."

"It was in Harrods. The place was crawling with rich Arabs- you wouldn't believe the gold jewellery on the women- and the designer clothes under those robes. He's there watching them. He clocks the lot of them, then singles someone out. A minute later he's saying something into his swish cell phone- one of those ericssons- real tidy it is. He's got one of them Walkman things, too, with one white ear piece in, listening to music. Then he disappears into the crowd. Yet, within a half hour, the bint in the black burkha is screaming her head off that she's been robbed- her bag pinched. The Security guys descend and then while all the fuss is going on, there's some major shoplifting going on that gets away with it. High value stuff. So, he's hooked into some gang or other. He's their spotter. But, he doesn't do the thieving. He's out the door and down the street when the shit hits the fan."

"Describe him to me."

"Tall, skinny. Dark hair, kinda wavy, what you can see poking out of the hoody. But the gear he's wearing is designer stuff, Ray Bans, expensive trainers. He fits right in with the sort of teenage shoppers with more money than sense in these stores. Last week, it was Harvey Nichols; week before it was Liberty's."

"If what you're saying is true, then there will be CCTV footage of him. And that would mean he'd be visible, not just to your eyes, but to others who are searching for him."

"Well, that's the thing. The kid has got some kind of …radar…he's figured out where every camera is, and every angle, and just avoids anything other than a body shot. No one's got anything on him."

"But you did. You saw him and you let him get away. How is that possible? You are supposed to be the best there is. And you know the consequences of failure."

Jenkins knew, he knew all too well. The one bloody time he'd succumbed. Well, he had no one to blame but himself. He'd let his gambling get out of hand- a bad streak that he just couldn't shake, unlike all the other times. So, when the rich wife from the Surrey stockbroker belt hired him to get the dirt on her husband, he'd got the evidence, but then told the bloke that if he was willing to pay good money, the evidence would go away. He'd tried to tell himself it wasn't blackmail, but he knew it stank. _Just once- and the wife would have driven any sane man to adultery._

He'd thought he'd got away with it, too. Until a prospective client called him up and arranged to meet at a seedy hotel. "Book it in the name of Holmes," the caller said. Then when they met, Mister Parnell told him he had the evidence to put him out of business forever. How the effing hell he got it, Jenkins would never know. He'd been bloody careful to make sure that the cheating stockbroker wouldn't be able to trace him.

Parnell wasn't his real name- Jenkins was sure of that. And the guy was pretty damn careful. Every face to face meeting was at another one of London's cheap run down hotels, usually near a train station. Always booked in the name of Holmes. And when he arrived, he was searched- professionally- looking for a wire. His phone was taken and disabled for the meeting. And then the guy put on some sort of electronic jamming device. The only other communication was by phone . And always a different phone number. He'd tried to ring back once a week later, only to be told by the service provider that the phone was no longer in service. Parnell was professional- but Jenkins wasn't sure which side of the law that experience came from.

"So, how did you lose him?" Parnell was taking no prisoners on this missing person job. Jenkins really didn't get it- what use was a skinny teenager to anyone? _Ours is not to reason why._ "I managed to tail him out of the building. It's not ideal on the Harrods escalators; kind of noticeable. So, I figured he spotted me. Anyway, he wriggled his way through the crowds, out the door and across the street. I got to street level just in time to see him dive into the big Zara shop there. It's got the one exit, so I went in- he's nowhere on the first floor, so I go up to the second floor, but he's not there, either. I check the men's dressing room- not there. I ask the girl on the women's dressing room if a guy went in, and she gives me a weird look. All I can figure is that he knows a back way out, some staff-only way to a store room or maybe a loading bay."

Parnell just started smirking. "Go back to Zara. Check out whether someone left that designer hoodie behind in the ladies dressing room. I'll bet that when no one was looking, he went in as a boy and came out as a girl. Tall- but he'd get away with it."

"Bloody hell." Jenkins realised now that it was probably exactly that – and he'd never even thought of it. _Shit._

"Now that he knows you saw him, he'll change his MO. So, don't expect to find him in Austin Reed next week dressed in the same type of kit. And he will be able to get away from you. He's spent the last three months perfecting his run. No, I think it's time to change tactics."

Jenkins waited. The one thing he had learned over the past three months was that Parnell was smarter than he was- by a long shot. Every standard practice he'd suggested for finding a missing person had been chucked out. "He will know that and have figured a way around it. The boy is not stupid. He's smarter than you are and will be perfectly camouflaged. He's built a new identity and can move without being seen."

Parnell was thinking. His eyes lost their focus on Jenkins and drifted over to the garish wall-paper of the hotel bedroom. The Swan B&B on Warwick Way was like something out of the 1970s; this room had just enough space for a sagging double bed. The desk clerk obviously thought that the men were using it for a sexual rendezvous. But, it was just another in a long line of similar meeting places. It was almost as if Parnell wanted someone to think that a mythical M Holmes name he was using to book the places was involved in a rather sordid homosexual affair. _Whatever the man's kink…_ Jenkins knew better than to question it.

"You need to find the gang leader. The boy can be…got at, if we find the manager, the one who is using him. There will be an inside link in each of those previous cases. So, sniff around at Harrods and Harvey Nicks- a floor manager probably, or maybe a bent security officer will have provided the camera details to let the crew know what to avoid. For all we know, they might have doctored the recordings."

"I've some contacts with the K&C police; I can see what they've come up with." Jenkins couldn't help but put in the rising inflection at the end of the sentence; he'd learned to make his suggestions tentative.

Parnell just stared. "Why on earth do you think they'd know anything?"

"Well, the stores would have reported it, surely."

The dark haired man just snorted in derision. "You really do not know much about the rich and famous, do you? Whatever fuss a customer makes will get dealt with by the proprietors. There is no way they'd let this become an item on a police station case file; the press would have a field day destroying their reputation overnight. No, go talk quietly to the staff and wave money around. It is the only thing that motivates them. You'll need to find someone who isn't in on the take from the gang, and who is just jealous enough to give you the clue you need."

Parnell came closer to Jenkins, a little too close for comfort. "Whatever else you do, don't approach the leader or any gang member directly. I just need a name and where to find him. It really wouldn't do your professional reputation any good at all to be tipping someone off because of your blundering." He stepped away and headed for the door. "I will send you a dead mail address- use that. And don't take long about it. If I don't hear from you within the next two weeks, I will…take the necessary steps." Then he was out of the door and gone.

Jenkins wondered what the desk staff would think when they saw him leave ten minutes later, still looking hot and bothered. _Probably think that this M Holmes is a real pervert._

_(3)_

Sherlock splayed his left hand out in front of him and contemplated the colour of the varnish he'd just painted onto the nail of his left index finger. _Too scarlet._ He rubbed it off before it could dry and opened the second red bottle; this one was darker. It needed to be striking enough to be remembered,but not tasteless, should a witness try to describe him. The outfit was already laid out on the bed: hip hugging black velvet trousers with a fashionable flair, a burgundy red satin blouse, the padded bra, which he would supplement with the scrummed up socks. He couldn't wear the current footwear fad for platforms- made him too tall and it was hard to run in them. So, it was patent leather doc martens. He'd washed his hair in the shower and used Douglas's hairdryer to fluff it up and make its wavy exuberance even more obvious.

"Shit, your hair looks like a bleedin' Afro." The young man leaning in the door of the tiny bedroom was giggling. He was in his late twenties, blond and had muscles- worked out every night. The gang put their money into their clothes, so he was well dressed, without being too ostentatious about it. They could cope with the dive in south London- a split level maisonette flat over a Chinese take-away restaurant on the south Circular road in Catford. The plumbing leaked, the night storage heaters seldom worked, the furniture- what limited amount there was- had seen better days. The landlord had one saving grace, however; he was willing to accept the rent 'in kind'- happy to sell on stolen goods at his cousin's street market stall.

"Just the style, Douglas; better than risking a wig."

Sherlock had learned not to trust an artificial wig. He'd got caught in a run that went wrong, ending up in a fist fight. His opponent thought he was fighting a girl, but when he grabbed her hair, it came off in his hand. Sherlock had used the momentary shock to his advantage to get away, but the man would know that he was not the young woman he'd been pretending to be. Sherlock didn't like getting exposed like that; could undermine his camouflage. His drama class at Harrow had taught him how to play a girl, so he used it now to hide in plain sight.

"You've got another half hour- then Chas is here with the minivan."

"Okay." Sherlock went back to painting his nails. He had learned how to get the make-up on faster; for the school plays, it had taken ages, but this wasn't stage make-up. Mascara to darken the lashes, eye-liner, a bit of foundation and blusher, a touch of lip gloss. France in the summer and Uncle Rudy had taught him a lot about it. Not enough to attract attention, just enough to make people think he was a fashion-conscious young woman. The target store required it- Selfridges was going up market, into the designer stuff, and he needed to look like the sort who could browse through the racks in the label rooms without attracting too much attention.

A half hour later when the white minivan drove up, Douglas was accompanied by a tall, willowy girl with cheekbones that rivalled Faye Dunaway's and a rosebud mouth that drew men's eyes. Tall enough to make women wonder if she was a model. Not conventionally beautiful, but still worth a good look. The gang counted on that fact. Eyes watching their target spotter and lookout were not going to be looking at them.

Chas was driving. He was the oldest of the five. In his mid-thirties, Chas was the son of an East End barrow boy, determined to move upmarket to the West End. His investment was the van- kept in good enough nick to pass muster parked on a street in Knightsbridge or off Oxford Street without attracting attention. The model and age were just common enough to be ubiquitous, and came with a set of seven different number plates and dodgy registration documents to match. He'd spent time as an apprentice with a sign painting firm in Dagenham, so re-sprayed the van every week with different false company names and logos. Loading it up with stolen gear wrapped in black plastic bags was just the sort of every day delivery work that London's streets were plagued with so regularly that no one paid them a blind bit of notice. He was dressed in a blue coverall uniform with a fake name badge to complete the disguise.

Jules was the muscle. He was most often seen in a uniform that matched the ones used by the target store's security guards. It helped with the element of surprise, and kept the floor staff from getting involved. To their eyes, he was the home team chasing after the thieves. He'd joined at Sherlock's suggestion, just after the team nearly got caught by one enterprising young sales assistant from the glass and china shop decided to try to stop them. "This way no one gets hurt; if they see someone else taking responsibility, they won't bother." It had worked like a dream.

The fifth member of the gang was Jamie Smee. That was his real name, and he worked nine-to-five at the SecureCorp, a recruitment agency that placed security guards. Their specialty was high-end retail. Guaranteed, vetted, customer friendly. He also knew every bent one on the books. Right now he was sitting in the office of the Floor Security Manager of Selfridges, working out how to provide the extra staff that would be needed to handle the crowds at the January sales, due to start in four days' time.

Of course, this was only the front end of the business. They got together because John Smith had set them up with each other. He was a bluff fifty year old who managed a string of crews, people he'd hand-picked and trained up- sort of a quartermaster of crime. He was good like that, putting the right people in touch with each other. None of the three men he initially organised was particularly adept at what they did, but they had attracted the attention of Smith, who recognised their potential. His people had caught Chas trying to scam a delivery load of fashion gear from Burberry's logistics hub. Douglas had been running a group of kids shoplifting in London's department stores. Smee was using his connections to get ex-cons jobs in the security market for a kick-back to keep their prison records off their files. Smith provided the fence to offload the stolen goods- which suited the gang fine. "I'm not a bleedin salesman," growled Chas. "Let someone else run that little risk of getting nicked for selling stuff under the counter."

The three man gang's first efforts were clumsy, and their fourth exercise caught the eye of a teenager who was using the House of Fraser as a refuge from the cold rainy day that London threw up in the second week of October- the sort that soaked everyone to the skin and made your bones ache, warning of the winter to come. Too strong a wind to keep an umbrella up, the gale drove shoppers in, and the kid had gone with the flow.

Crowds bothered him, so he had moved quickly off the busy main floor; anyway, the beauty bars there were full of wealthy women buying expensive cosmetics. Not his scene. He drifted to the down escalator, catching a few eyes of the shoppers travelling on the up escalator. Not the usual customer, the young man was wearing faded denim jeans with a rip across the left knee and an Alice in Chains stitch boy T shirt under what appeared to be a US army surplus jacket. On his fourth night of sleeping rough he'd found a bloke willing to swap these clothes for his woollen greys and the fencing team hoody he'd worn when he left Harrow. The bloke said he always fancied going to a posh school. Sherlock felt liberated as he shed his old skin to become a rebellious teenager with attitude. His long hair- not cut since the last term of school- had grown wild and wavy, lending him a dissolute look.

Sherlock was in search of a quiet spot where he could just relax and stay warm. Over the past three weeks he'd become a connoisseur of these stores, spending a lot of time window shopping and browsing. The sensory stimulation was a bit hard to deal with, but he'd learned how to control his anxiety by keeping focused on acting like a shopper. His drama classes had made him realise that everything – body language, conversation, clothing, props- could be learned and used to hide himself behind. Outwardly blending in, he did feel more secure, and that reduced the anxiety. He'd come to know department stores as a place where he could stay dry, keep warm and be invisible. Other shoppers just tended to ignore each other, which suited him fine. The big department stores were the best place to spend time unnoticed, moving onto a different department before his loitering raised staff suspicions.

And street corners, underpasses and the other open public spaces were already occupied by homeless people and drifters, who resented new comers. He'd learned to avoid them. In a store, he had a legitimate excuse to wander and look at things. He especially liked the bookstores – Foyles and Hatchards; he could spend hours in them, moving from department to department before the staff became too suspicious. He could have a pee, use their basins to keep hands and face clean. Some of the train stations had showers, which he had used twice, washing in his underclothes to get them clean at the same time. But he preferred the stores for day to day use. They were safer than the public loos, where men eyed him and he felt intimidated. Apparently clean and dressed like a lot of other teenagers, he didn't draw too much attention in the crowds shopping on London's West End.

However, when he turned up in the House of Fraser men's department on the Lower Ground floor, the neat suit of the sales assistant was a stark contrast to his own apparel. That said, there wasn't another customer in sight. The place was as quiet as a church on a Monday. Once glance at the price tickets on the rack of suits told Sherlock why- _overpriced, poor quality._

"Can I help you, _sir._ " The sarcasm was blatant.

"What's your problem?" He gave it some attitude.

"Well…" the obviously gay sales assistant cast a sceptical eye over the teenager, trying to deal with the clash of aesthetics.

"Never seen authentic Grunge before, have you?" Sherlock smirked.

The sales assistant was in his mid-twenties. "No, can't say that I have."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Took me ages to source this from Seattle. Only the best… but, you'll be relieved I am not here for myself. I mean, really…wouldn't be caught dead in the stuff you sell here. Nope; it's my brother. He's more your conservative dresser; normally frequents Jermyn Street, but I can't afford that, so…here I am."

Whether it was Sherlock's confident tone, or just the sheer bravura of his performance, the sales assistant decided it was worth his while to be pleasant. "So, what have you got in mind?"

Sherlock was also willing to prolong the conversation as long as it gave him more time in the warmth. The assistant was actually bored witless with no customers, so they were both happy to spin it out. They were running through the range of men's waist coats when a blond bloke showed up, his eyes busy looking around. Sherlock thought he was a little too obviously searching for the staff-only door; the guy was nervous and wouldn't meet the eye of the assistant. He walked over to a pile of heavy cable sweaters on a table and pretended to go through them while eyeing the place. Sherlock saw through it in an instant and wondered if he was going to see some shoplifting. But less than a minute of poking through the merchandise, and the bloke was off, back up the stairs rather than the escalator.

Sherlock spun the time out a bit longer, looking at the expensive suits while getting the shop assistant to talk about his favourite music. The guy was more a Bon Jovi fan than metal or grunge, so they were trading teasing insults at each other's taste when the blond came back- only this time he was running across the floor, dodging between the clothes racks and heading for the staff-only door. He had a bundle of something held in his right arm. As he passed them standing at the rack with the most expensive suits on it, he swept three onto his left arm, heaved the suit rack across the aisle between Sherlock and the sales assistant and then barreled toward the back door.

" _Shit!"_ The sales assistant was stunned and just stood there staring after him, but without thinking Sherlock turned toward the door to watch the shoplifter go through, just as a security guard came hurtling down the stairs. He took one look at Sherlock and yelled. "Hey- you! Stop right there!"

In a split second, Sherlock could see what was going to happen. The idiot would accuse him of being involved in the shop lifting; it could even end up with him being arrested or questioned by the police. _No way; got to stay invisible._ Without another thought, he charged through the same door as the thief had gone. Once through into the storeroom he jammed the spring bar down with a cardboard box of plastic wrapped shirts so it would lock, and tore after the blond who was half way across the delivery bay. Because his arms were full, he wasn't nearly as fast as Sherlock, so the teenager closed the distance between them and reached his side when the guy was fumbling the suits to get at the external door.

"Allow me." Sherlock opened the door and let him out, following close behind.

"Piss off, kid."

"Nope. They think I'm one of your lot, and I have no intention of hanging around to convince them otherwise." He looked around the back of the store, just as the white van came around the corner at speed. "So, just take me with you and drop me off later."

"Why the hell should I do that?"

"Because I can give a police artist a photo-fit description of you, the number plate of that van, and tell them that you used to be a fitness instructor- if you take me along, however, I become an accessory and rather invested in keeping your identities secret."

The van drew up and Chas leaned over to shout through the passenger side window, "Who the fuck is this?"

The blond made a decision and shouted through the window, "I think he's on our side." He ran around to the back of the van, throwing the doors open and shoving his booty in. Then he turned to Sherlock and said, "hop in the back."

As the van drove off the delivery alleyway past St Peter's Church onto Henrietta Place going west, Sherlock was exploring. The black bag had split open when heaved into the back, and he could see leather goods and silver – candlesticks, photo frames and the like. In the meantime, the driver was having an argument with the blond.

"What the fuck, Doug? Like we need a witness?!"

"Leaving him behind was worse; he made the plate number and me- they thought he was with us, so the store dicks were bound to question him."

"Maybe, but what are _we_ going to do with him?"

"Just drive, Chas. We can let him off when we cross the river."

"So he can go blab to the police then?"

"What are you suggesting? He's the one who decided to tag along. Said it would make him an accessory."

Chas sniggered. "Sounds like something you'd find in the women's department. Just how are we going to keep him quiet?"

A little worried about where their conversation might end up, Sherlock decided he'd better intervene.

"Excuse me- but you do realise that you managed to miss the really valuable stuff?"

"What?" The one called Doug leaned over the seat to stare at Sherlock.

"Well, even in the men's department, the three suits you've got here won't make you even a quarter of what you'd get if you'd taken the same weight in waistcoats. And the candlesticks- you've pulled all the plate, when I know for a fact that there's some solid sterling ones on the back shelf. All in this lot won't be worth a thousand quid. Your women's purses aren't half as valuable as the men's wallets would have been pound for pound- but really you should have gone for the Filofaxes instead. Six of those and you're half way to the grand."

Doug looked at the driver. "What the fuck?! A critic…"

Sherlock was quick. "No, just more observant than you are. It's a simple calculation of accessibility, size and weight ratios to resale value, plotted across the floor plan of the store, factoring in time and escape routes. You won't last long if you don't maximise the return for the risk you are taking."

"Okay, clever clogs- you a professional shoplifter? "

"No, but this isn't rocket science; anyone can figure out the best targets to get you more for the effort. Surely you…" he searched for the phrase, "…case the joint?"

Now it was the blond's turn to snigger. "Posh boy accent in grunge- what do you know about such things?"

"Look, I can prove it. Less risk, more return. Just stop at any store and I'll show you."

There was something in the challenge that made Douglas smile. They were on New Bond Street heading south; it was about to become Old Bond Street and then they'd have to turn onto Piccadilly.

Doug made a decision. "Chas, turn left and stop outside Fortnum & Masons. I'll see you back at the flat."

"What?!" But he did turn east, heading up toward Piccadilly Circus.

"Yeah, this guy is smart. I'm going to pick his brain a bit. Drop us off just here."

And that's how Sherlock got himself off the streets and into work less than a month after going missing from Harrow.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmium is used in alloys for the production of magnets and as a flux concentrator for high magnetic fields. Holmium is the most magnetic of all elements, but only as a paramagnet, which means it becomes magnetic when it's sitting in an externally applied magnetic field. In these conditions, Holmium can be used for the pole-pieces of the strongest static magnets. When not in these conditions, the magnetic attraction vanishes. A bit like the relationship between two Holmes brothers.

 

* * *

_(1)_

"Mister…Smith." The irony in his tone was obvious. "Perhaps it would be appropriate if I introduced myself as Mister Jones." The tall man gestured to the chair in unspoken command to be seated. It was a voice used to being obeyed.

The stocky fifty year-old with thinning hair and a deceptively anodyne face did not rise to the bait. He'd heard it all before. No one every believed him that his real name was in fact John Smith. For the umpteenth time he cursed his parents' lack of imagination. If they'd have given him a middle name, then he'd have switched to that as soon as he could. "There's now't wrong wit' John; good steady name is John Smith," he could still hear his mother's insistence. But the name on the birth certificate, the passport, the drivers' license always made people suspicious. Now looking at a man whose name was certainly not Jones, Smith decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He looked at the metal chair, sitting on its own on the warehouse floor, and then sat. After all, the two rather large and well-muscled men behind him would simply force him into the chair if he refused. Smith saw no reason to earn a few bruises for the sake of his pride.

"It has come to my attention that you manage a number of criminal teams in London."

Not for the first time since he was plucked off the street by the heavies behind him, John Smith wondered just who the hell was behind it. The man in front of him didn't feel like a competitor trying to muscle in on his operation. If that had been the case, then the physical side would have been more obvious. A bit of roughing up, showing who's boss. On the other hand, no policeman would ever resort to a private interrogation. No rights had been read, no paperwork filed. Smith had worked in the army, ending up as a sergeant in the red caps, policing the streets of Northern Ireland during the worst of the troubles. If it wasn't the provos or the nationalists, it was his own troops misbehaving- they _all_ thought he was the enemy. He knew the drill. The snatch operation to get him into this warehouse had been slick, quick and professional. The man standing in front of him wanted something- probably information. But Smith needed to be careful, because he wasn't sure just who he was dealing with. So, he did not respond.

"I am not interested in you, or your criminals. I am interested in just one person. If you agree to the terms of my proposal, I am prepared to turn a blind eye to the activities of you and the rest of your network. I will assume you are interested in hearing more."

This statement made it no easier for Smith to figure out which side of the fence his interrogator was sitting on- criminal or public servant? He could be either. He carried himself with the confidence of a powerful man, used to being the centre of gravity, pulling those around him into his magnetic field. Smith decided to risk a question.

"Mister Jones, are you fish or fowl?"

That provoked a smirk. "Interesting question. Would it matter to your answer?"

"Yes, it would. If you're legal, then turning a blind eye to the activities of a criminal network either implies that you are important and the person you are after is very important, or you have no idea what you would be putting in the balance when you offer to look the other way. Personally, given what I've seen of your operation so far, I think you've done your homework on me and my boys, so the person you want is worth… a great deal. That's _interesting_."

"And if I were fowl, rather than fish, to use your simile?"

"Then you'd be in a different line of criminal business to mine, so turning a blind eye wouldn't hurt you, and the worth of the person you seek is lower. So I'd have less to bargain with. But I don't think that's the case."

"How can you be so sure I'm not in your line of work?"

The chubby man snorted. Someone this charismatic? "If you were, I'd have heard of you. Someone like you would stand out."

This seemed to amuse his interrogator. "What if I'm neither?"

The ex-Army sergeant thought it through. "Then you're a chimera- maybe working for one or the other, but not like them. Maybe there's a bit of independent thinking or entrepreneurship going on? Or you could be working for a third party – like a government- that doesn't want its presence to be known."

Jones smiled. "None of this little chat answers the question I asked, Mister Smith."

"Depends on who you are after. Give me a name, Mister Jones, or there's no point in carrying on this conversation."

The tall man shook his head. "Unfortunately, I cannot oblige, because I have no idea what alias he is using. His name is not important. If you are as astute as you appear to be, then you will know who I am talking about. He's just turned seventeen. Tall for that age, dark hair, light blue eyes that see too much. And clever, smarter than you are- and that will have made him stick in your memory."

Smith knew instantly who he was talking about. The kid. The one who Doug Hatton had brought on board. The spotter, the planner- the one whose brain had turned a second rate bunch of amateurs into one of the most profitable of his retail teams. The kid was weird but smart as hell. The five of them cleared in the past two months more than most teams did in a year with twice the manpower. And it was all down to the kid.

He nodded. "Do you want the name he uses when he's dressed as a girl? Or when he's the boy?"

That raised an equally knowing smile. "Let's start with the off-duty name, please."

"Lars Sigurson."

This was greeted by a burst of laughter, and it took a few moments for the man to get his breath back enough to say, "Oh, well done! Two fingers to the old man. That's wonderful; he's got a sense of humour. _Brilliant_."

Smith was puzzled. "It's supposed to be Scandinavian, but he sounds posh English, not foreign."

The man suddenly sobered and walked closer, in fact, too close for Smith's comfort. He was looming over the chair, and using his physical presence to intimidate the ex-Army officer. His interrogator's dark blue eyes took on a cold, steely look that rather matched the blue of his suit.

"Well, Mister Smith, this is what you are going to do with that young man. I want you to take him off the front line. Let someone else be their spotter. Bring him under your wing, turn him into your personal protege." The man bent closer to his ear, as if about to share a confidence. Smith didn't look up at him, but kept his eyes looking straight ahead, at parade rest.

Quietly, in the oddly not British-not American accent, his interrogator continued, "And once he's there, you are to corrupt him, utterly. Get that innocent hooked on drugs, sex, rock and roll- the works. I want him _ruined_. Take that quicksilver mind of his and break it. That was your speciality in Northern Ireland, if I'm not mistaken. Let loose your inner self, Mister Smith, and destroy him."

There was something in this message that put shivers down Smith's back. "Jeeze- what the hell did he ever do to you?"

"He was born. That was enough." Fitzroy Ford stepped away from the chair. When he looked back at Smith, the vicious look had been replaced with a calmer one.

Smith protested, "I'm not a murderer or a contract killer. There're others who do that line of work; let me put you in touch with one."

"Don't misunderstand me; I don't want him dead. I want him alive. It's important that someone else _sees_ the devastation. When the boy's hit the bottom, when he's addicted and willing to sell his body and soul for a hit, then you're to chuck him out on the streets again. Let's see how he gets on then."

"And if I do this, what's in it for me?"

"Survival. Because if you don't, then I will destroy you." His emphasis of the word 'destroy' was stressed enough to strike fear into Smith in a way he had not felt fear in a very long time. His captor continued, "Team by team, inch by inch, I will bury you so deep in the British judicial system that you won't be out for a _very_ long time. And when you are being held at Her Majesty's pleasure- in Northern Ireland, I will be sure to arrange that little twist- I will also make sure that they know you were once a British forces policeman."

It was Smith's own personal nightmare, that one. It was the only reason why he had ever hesitated to take up criminal work in the first place, the thought that he might end up in jail at the mercy of the type of people that he had once taken pleasure in putting behind bars. He'd got to the point where he carried a gun, and would not hesitate to use it on himself, rather than face incarceration. No matter how profitable the shoplifting racket had become, the choice was easy to make, so he made it.

The man in the expensive blue suit continued. "Oh, good. You've come to a decision, and I am glad it is the right one."

"When?"

"Why not start today?"

Smith nodded, and Jones gestured to the two men, who came up to either side of the chair. "Escort the gentleman back to his place of business. Goodbye, Mister Smith. A pleasure to meet you."

"How will you know when I let him loose? Is there some way to contact you?"

"I will be watching, Mister Smith. In fact, you're to take photos of the decline and fall. My men will give you an address where you can post them. I want every little sordid detail caught on camera. I'm looking forward to it."

Mister Smith decided that he never, ever wanted to be on the receiving end of this degree of animosity. What he had seen at first as a magnetic attraction of power now repulsed him utterly. "Right you are. Best I get to work now." He stood up and walked towards the door, happy to leave the scene as fast as he could.

_(2)_

Mycroft had been working "Plan B" for almost six weeks. He knew better than to do the leg work himself. His day job took up too much time, so he spent the money to have a full time investigation team on the job. The firm called Research Associates might have a rather discrete name, but they were one of the best in the business and often used former security services staff. He knew the principal associate- Paul Hawker- and could trust his discretion with this private search.

He stopped them from looking under bridges and homeless shelters. He got them to start looking in places where Sherlock might go for part time work or recreation. Discrete enquiries were made at every fencing club in London. And he put horses back into the equation, too. The private investigators started at the Littlebourne livery stables near Harrow where Sherlock was well-known, then the Hyde Park stable in Bayswater, before checking every horse yard of any size in central and outer London. It was possible that Sherlock might have gotten a casual job as a stable hand, using a false ID. No luck, but every contact involved leaving behind a photo and contact details, just in case.

By November, the team was checking the music scene- concert Halls with their free lobby performances or lunchtime organ recitals. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would be missing his violin. Sooner or later, the magnetic attraction of music would pull Sherlock into making himself visible. Every ticket office at every classical music venue was sent his photo and details. Every public library was visited and their managers spoken to. Mycroft could only hope that they would pass the message and photo onto their staff. The same with the university libraries; he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to try to sneak in and use their books. On one of his own visits to the Schotts sheet music shop on Great Marlborough Street, he left behind his details when buying some piano music for himself. Sherlock was a quick enough study that just browsing would give him enough to remember a piece.

But Mycroft knew that it was unlikely to produce much. Even with the best will in the world, staff at these places would remember and pay attention for a short time, but then forget. If Sherlock didn't show up at one of them while the memory was still fresh, then it was likely he'd be missed. Not for the first time, Mycroft found himself frustrated that other people did not have the kind of memory he did. He never forgot a face; how could other people be so _bovine_?

In the first week of December, he was starting to lose hope. Returning to the South Eaton Place townhouse after a long afternoon meeting with the top team at S&ILS, he saw the message light on the answer machine flashing. He pressed _play_.

The answer machine's deadpan female voice recording kicked in.

"You have one new message. December fifteenth, five thirty three pm."

There was a click and then, "Hello, Mister Holmes. This is Hawker. We've had a tentative sighting. Someone- a Miss Wilson- left a message on the voice mail number, calling from the Westminster Music Library. Could you ring me back, please? Your mobile was switched off. I need to know how you want to proceed, as the target was still on site at the time when she made the call."

Mycroft knew the library well- it was less than ten minutes away. He kicked himself for not thinking of it before now. Of course, Sherlock would know it well for the same reason he did- it was so close to the South Eaton Place townhouse that it was their regular treat when they were children. He checked his watch- 6.42pm- eighteen minutes to closing time. No time to waste on going through Paul Hawker. He grabbed the phone book, found the number and dialled quickly.

"Westminster Music Library."

"Could you put me through to Miss Wilson's extension, please?" There was a pause, then more rings.

"Hello? Alice Wilson speaking." The voice made it hard not for Mycroft not to imagine her as the middle-aged spinster, the stereotypic librarian.

"I am returning the call you made to the contact number on the notice about the missing person. You said you thought you may have seen him today. Is he still there?"

"Oh… well, I'm not sure. I left the desk more than an hour ago. I'm not sure it's the right person, but it might be."

"Could you give me some details, please?"

"Yes, of course. I was filling in for a member of staff – she was having her appraisal done at the time- at the sheet music desk when this young man came up. I don't normally do lending work- I'm a researcher working in the Edwin Evans manuscript collection, but they were short staffed, so I said I would help out for an hour."

Mycroft rolled his eyes trying to contain his impatience. "Could you describe him?"

"Oh, well, he's …I don't know, like a lot of teenagers- tall and a bit weedy. But, lovely blue eyes he has- almost ice blue; that's why I remembered him from the photo that was circulated by the head librarian to all departments. Ever so polite. He knew what he was looking for- a score for the solo version of Arvo Pärt's _Fratres_. I had to disappoint him. All we have in sheet music is the version for string quartet or violin and piano." Miss Wilson giggled. "From the face he made about the last of these, you'd've thought the piano was something vile. 'No, thank you' he said in disgust and stalked off in high dudgeon. I asked the other librarian working in the stacks and she said he'd been a few times before, always after obscure solo violin music. He'd sit there reading it. Never takes anything out, because he's on a guest card."

"Miss Wilson, I have no idea how far you are from the sheet music desk, but I would be exceedingly grateful if you could go there and see if he is still on the premises. If so, find a way- discretely- to keep him there. I'm on my way now; I'll be there in five minutes."

"Oh…" She sounded a little startled by the urgency in her voice. "I…um- look, is he in trouble or something?"

"No, nothing of the sort. He went missing three months ago. He's my brother, and I am very worried about him. I just want to talk to him, so please don't tell him that anyone's coming. Just…" he tried to think of what she could do to stall him without raising Sherlock's suspicions, "…ask him why he hates the idea of violin and piano together. He could bore for Britain on that subject. I am going to ring off now, so I can get there as quickly as possible. See you shortly, Miss Wilson." Before she could say anything more, he put the phone down and pulled on his coat. It would actually be faster to go on foot than to call Stimpson to get the car out. The one way systems in Belgravia were awful, and traffic could get seriously snarled up on both Ebury and Eccleston Streets. He threw open the front door and went pounding down the pavement toward Buckingham Palace Road at a run.

At 6.54 pm, a red-faced and out of breath Mycroft Holmes reached the Victoria Public Library. The four story Victorian brick and stone building was on the corner of Buckingham Palace Road and Elizabeth Street. There were a few people coming out the front door, workers going home and readers tipping out just before closure. He pushed his way through and into the lobby, which was busy with people coming out of the main reading room on the ground floor. Keeping his eyes peeled for a particular teenager, he headed up the marble stairs to the music library on the second floor. Panting at the top, he spotted a middle-aged woman with graying hair standing still looking at the people passing around her, frowning, her hands clasped. Deduction said this was Miss Wilson, and something in her stance told him he was too late.

"Miss Wilson?"

She had seen him approaching her and instinctively knew. "You're the brother?"

He nodded.

"I'm so sorry. He left- about an hour ago. I didn't know, and you've come in such a hurry. I tried to phone you back, but I only had the other number. I'm sorry to have got you out for nothing."

He tried to slow his breathing and get his disappointment and himself back under control. "Don't apologise. This is…" he drew another deep breath, "…the closest I've gotten for the past three months." Just then a bell went off- five minutes to tell everyone it was closing time. People were swerving around them on their way down the stairs.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get his emotions into some semblance of order. _Deep breath._ Then, "Miss Wilson, I realise that it is closing time, and I don't want to keep you late. But, I really need to ask you a few questions. It's very important. Could I, take you somewhere for a cup of tea? There is a café just up the road."

She looked slightly startled, and he worried that she was going to say no. "Please, it won't take long. I just need to speak with someone who has seen him. It's been months, and…" He ran out of breath. To be honest, he wasn't sure how to finish the sentence, but he knew he needed to know what she had seen. "Please…I am… so _very_ worried about him."

Perhaps it was the slightly desperate tone that did it. She nodded. "Let me get my things. There's a café just across the street. A cup of tea before I go home. Yes, I can do that."

By the time she returned, the building was closing down; the door was manned to stop anyone from coming in, with just a few staff stragglers leaving. She had a wool coat and hat on. In the minutes that she'd been gone, Mycroft had cooled down and was now back to his usual demeanour. He held the door open for her, and took her across the road. There was a simple café there but he turned to her.

"Would you mind going a little bit further? Not far, the Porschen Cake shop is just two streets up and they do rather nice cakes. Still open for tea at this hour, too."

She nodded, and then smiled. "You got to the Library ever so quickly, were you in the neighbourhood?"

"Yes. I live on South Eaton Place. That's probably why he was at the Music Library; we used to go when we were children." They walked the 200 meters to the shop on the corner of Elizabeth Street and Ebury, and he opened the door for her. The atmosphere in the shop was warm, even a bit steamy compared to the cold outside. The displays were full of Christmas cakes and yule themed confectionary. He steered her to one of the four tiny tables.

A waitress came over and took their order- a pot of English Afternoon blend tea for two and two mincemeat pies. She had slid out of her coat in the warmth, letting it fall over the back of her chair. She was being cautious, unsure of how to handle the situation.

"I want to thank you, Miss Wilson, for having the presence of mind not just to see him and remember the notice, but to be willing to telephone."

She shrugged a little sheepishly. "I'm sorry that I didn't manage to reach you when you could have found him at the Library. But are you sure that this young man is your brother? I'd hate for it to be all a big mistake."

Mycroft shook his head. "Your description matches him. The piece of music and his reaction to your comment is…well," he gave her a smile, "just him. He's like that."

"The part that confuses me is the 'missing person' bit. I mean, don't misunderstand, but…um." She hesitated. Then the waitress arrived with the tea and the mince pies.

"Allow me." A few moments passed as Mycroft put the milk in their tea cups, stirred the loose leaf tea in the pot and then poured through the strainer into their cups. Then he asked mildly, "Why? What was it about his appearance that doesn't match the description?"

Thoughtfully, she chewed the bite of mince pie she'd just taken, and then replied. "Most teenagers who go missing end up pretty poor and scruffy, if not downright homeless. At the library we're used to homeless people coming in and squatting- it's warm and dry and there's stuff to read, so in one sense I don't blame them. But, we have a policy. There are shelters and day centres where they won't disturb the other readers, so we try to get them to go there. He doesn't strike me as one of those. Not at all." She took a sip of tea, then asked "What's his name?"

Mycroft thought about it. "He could be using one of three that are his real name. Or, more likely, he's using a different one altogether. He doesn't _want_ to be found. I've realised that now."

She looked troubled. "Why? Why doesn't he want to be found?" She asked it innocently enough, but he could hear the subtext.

"Whatever outward impression he gives, Miss Wilson, my brother is in need of help. He's sixteen years old, and ran away from a traumatic incident- he found his school tutor- a mentor really, someone he cared about- dead. It was from natural causes, but my brother wasn't to know. More important than the fact that he is underage, he is…" Mycroft tried to decide how to explain it. "He is what they call developmentally challenged. He doesn't understand social things. He's very bright, a gifted musician, has the makings of an even more talented scientist- but until three months ago, had never managed to cope independently."

"Why did he run away from home? What about your parents?"

"They're dead. I'm his legal guardian. I've spent the last ten weeks looking under bridges, in homeless shelters, checking hospitals –and libraries."

"Oh." She looked conflicted. "Well, the young man I saw was…um, I guess I'd describe him as rather different from the picture you are painting. He was confident, knew exactly what he wanted. Well dressed- quite nice clothing. Not poor- you know we see all kinds in the library- those who are there just to have a place to go. He's…not one of those. He had one of those Walkman things- he had a new backpack with him, and he pulled out a CD- new, not one of the loan ones from the library." She gave a rueful laugh. "Made me jealous- He was listening to the Emma Kirkby CD- the Academy of Ancient Music's release of the Corelli Christmas oratorio. I can't afford every CD I'd like to buy on a researcher's salary, so it's on my Christmas list."

She was watching his face. Mycroft found it hard for a moment to deal with his conflicting emotions- and to keep those from being too obvious. She waited. Finally, he drew a ragged breath. "I am glad to hear what you've just said. You have no idea how worried I've been. But, I still need to find him, to talk with him. I need to understand." While he was relieved that Sherlock wasn't living on the poverty line, he was also worried. _What's he doing? How is he making the money that is buying him the things she's seen?_ It startled him, and opened a whole new set of scenarios, quite a number of which were almost as alarming as the thought of his brother sleeping rough.

But, first things first. "You said he was using a 'guest card'. How does that work; does he have to provide contact details?" This might still be a breakthrough.

"Yes and no- I mean the card issuing service for Westminster Library will have a name- but we just use the number. Guest cards by definition don't have an address, or a photo. It's not worth the cost, given they're only good for a month. If you are a resident in Westminster, you get to take books out, but you have to show a utility bill or something else with your address, and we've just started putting photos on, because we've had some issues with stolen and fake cards. If you're a visitor, then you can get a guest pass just by showing proof of identity- a drivers' license, ID or passport when you get it, but we don't issue cards at the Music Library."

He drew breath. "Where would such a card be obtained?"

"Well, there are sixteen libraries run by Westminster City Council, and he could have got a card at most of those. I couldn't tell you which one. It might be here at Victoria, but I couldn't be sure."

 _So, another job for Research Associates_. And he would have to get them to post a man in the Music Library to see if Sherlock returned. But, he felt more optimistic than he had for a very long time. Sherlock was alive, apparently well and managing. That raised more questions, but at least they didn't involve hospitals or morgues. He tucked into his mince pie with some relish. _Maybe he will be home for Christmas._

(3)

It wasn't a good day. Some were. Sherlock wasn't exactly keeping score. But bad days happened when the sensory stimulation became overwhelming, when the process of keeping up appearances, maintaining the façade of normality, became all too much. This was one of those days. They'd managed a big strike on Fenwick's yesterday, and he was knackered. The preparation took a whole day, with every one of his senses on full power at the target store to get the data in; then he had to spend time doing the thinking- how to maximise the take in terms of volume and value, over time and path through the store, divided by the ability of Jules to keep the floor staff and the security people under control. The boss, the man they called Smith, had tried to talk him into using a bigger crew, but he'd successfully argued that they needed to keep the value stolen to a reasonable level or the police would start to take greater interest. Douglas was already having to change his hair colour every time, wear wigs and pad up to change his appearance, because the physical descriptions of the floor staff were something that couldn't be erased by the bent security officer they used. It wasn't about _quantity_ ; it had to be about _quality_. He'd taken them upmarket a few times- the Austin Reed store on Regent's Street and the Aquascutum shop across the road. Smaller stores, so a greater risk, but the value per item was much higher. That proved his point, and Smith backed off.

Having done all the mental heavy work the two days before they hit the target, Sherlock had learned to brief the team only at the last minute, giving them their final minute-by-minute instructions the morning of the raid. Their memories were appalling, so anything that went in the night before usually got drowned out by beer or whatever else they got up to. He stayed away from all that, and Doug was willing to keep the others from hassling him too much about it. He'd heard the blond arguing with Chas and Jules- "He's the goose that laid our golden egg, so just leave him alone." Chas was particularly vocal about "how weird" this Lars fellow was, called him a freak. Every briefing was the same; Chas wasn't able to resist challenging him on the details, just as a matter of principle.

Jules on the other hand was fine about him, until he came back to the flat after a night of drinking. Beer and vodka chasers were his weakness. Sherlock had learned how to get out of the tiny box room they let him sleep in- out the window and onto the roof as soon as he heard the big man return in one of his drunken states. The first time, he'd been asleep, to be woken up by the sight of the man stripping off his shirt beside his mattress. Public school had taught Sherlock just how to avoid amorous assaults, so while the man was trying to get his shoes off, the sixteen year old bolted out of the room, yelling his head off to Doug to "get this nutter off me." The physical instructor had obliged, but Sherlock didn't hang about, and spent the night sleeping rough in Mountsfield Park. It took a contrite apology from the former security guard and a promise never to try anything like that again, before Lars agreed to come back. And he'd got Douglas, Jamie and Chas to agree that Jules was never allowed back in the flat after a drinking session when Lars was there on his own. Chas sniffed, and called it _babysitting_ ; "Maybe the kid needs to learn how to lighten up, down a few pints himself and become more human." Doug had told him to stop being a prick, or he'd tell Smith to find a new driver. That shut the East Ender up.

But, Sherlock never accompanied them to the Plough and Harrow up the road. Alcohol bothered his digestive system, and that was already going through a bad phase at the moment. The Harrow school doctor had explained IBS to him- didn't help that he was getting most of his meals from the Chinese downstairs. The cooks weren't bad, but the quantity of peanut oil was something he wasn't used to yet. Still, on those days when his gut was flaring up, he managed to get by on steamed rice.

 _Thump_. He burrowed his head deeper under the duvet and tried to block out the sound of Doug working out next door. The man was obsessed with his barbells, which kept hitting the wood floorboards, each thump transferring its vibration to the back of Sherlock's head and adding to the astonishingly painful headache he was getting. This was the hardest part of being away from the school- nowhere to run to when he needed medication. Over the counter stuff had never worked with him, so he'd always had a supply of prescription pain relievers. Now, he had no GP; ( _THUMP_ ) registration would require ID, and his current documentation was more than a little dodgy. He'd managed to buy a student ID and forged a different name onto the card: Lars Sigurson. He could speak Norwegian, and pretend to be unable to speak English, if he got stopped by the police. By the time they tracked down the University College London registration office to confirm his identity, he should be able to get loose.

Next step was to get a forged birth certificate, the driver's license and then the passport. Then he'd be able to break free from the shoplifting crew. He didn't like the idea of doing this any longer than he actually had to. It wasn't that he had any real views on crime _per se_ ; he couldn't bear the thought of his brother's supercilious 'I told you so' if he found out that Sherlock was resorting to criminal methods. Once he had some financial independence, then he'd work out a way of getting into a line of work that was not criminally driven. He needed to break free - not just of his brother's plans for him, but also the exploitation that Douglas and Smith were doing. He'd come to realise that he was substituting one form of entrapment with another, and wanted to escape this one, too.

His chain of thought got momentarily distracted by the musty scent of the duvet- there was a reason why he didn't like to sleep with his head under it. He forced his nose to stop caring and his mind back on the problem of documenting ( _THUMP_ ) his new identity. With a proper set of documents, he'd get past the age issue, and be able to set up a bank account. Sherlock was getting increasingly anxious that his stash of cash was beginning to tempt the others. _No honour amongst thieves_. As the gang got more successful, the four others had begun to argue more about the shares. ( _THUMP_ )

Chas took pleasure in explaining it to him- "Low risk-low reward. You get the lowest cut because of your age, matey- not likely to do time for a first offence, and you're not going to get caught doing the actual thieving."Sherlock didn't care; it wasn't about the money. As long as he was off the streets and had enough to eat, he was fine because, unlike the others, he knew this lifestyle was temporary _._ No matter what his share, he didn't spend as much as they did, and a cash surplus was building up. He kept it on his person now- sleeping in his jeans, with his pockets full of notes. He'd ( _THUMP_ ) built up a tidy sum without any of the Catford Gang knowing.

 _Catford Gang._ As if they were some sort of pirates…( _THUMP_ ).

This was ridiculous. He couldn't think with that racket. Sherlock threw the dingy duvet off and headed for the grimy bathroom, pulling on his Alice in Chains T shirt over his designer jeans. It was cold in the flat, and the water heater had been on the blink for several days. He'd have to go to the leisure centre and take a shower there. He hated that- locker rooms and yet more people. It was all too horrible to contemplate, so he decided that getting clean could wait another day. He pulled on the baseball cap, the hoodie and the sunglasses, then his new coat.

He had nearly made it out the door when Doug realised he was up and about.

"Oi!- you goin out?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your powers of observation are truly remarkable, Douglas."

"Well…just be back by six. Smithy's coming over. Wants to talk- said it's about you. Got some sort of new scheme."

Sherlock nodded, and then fled down the stairs.

His mood did not improve. On days like these, he struggled to find some relief. Once the cash built up enough and he'd bought the new set of forged documents, he'd buy a cheap violin. The sound quality would be poor, but being without the chance to play was just driving him around the bend. Without music or chemistry to keep his hands and mind occupied, he was finding all the waiting around between jobs to be a right pain. Walking might have been a solution, but Sherlock was now hyper aware of the CCTV cameras. The store work made him realise just how much he needed to be invisible on the streets.

Now Sherlock carefully plotted the journeys he needed- to the leisure centre, the mini-mart, the library- to be sure to avoid his face being seen. Because the team had ready access to new clothing, he varied his clothes regularly, and sold them on to the local street market after a week, to avoid being seen in stolen goods, or becoming recognisable on camera. Baseball caps, sunglasses, hoodies- the accoutrements of South London youth kept him anonymous enough on short runs, so long as he varied them often enough so as to avoid being recognised as a regular.

Today, he went to Mountfield Park, and sat on a bench. It was cold, so he snuggled into the down ski jacket that the team had liberated for him from Fenwicks. He put a CD in his Walkman. This one was a brand new recording by Tamsin Little of Arvo Pärt works. Unfortunately, the _Fratres_ piece on the CD was the 1980's score version, and the _Spiegel im Spiegel_ on the CD ruined the violin part because it too involved a piano. Martin Roscoe's playing was much better than his brother's efforts, but just hearing the violin and the piano together brought back unfortunate memories.

"Sherlock, will you just _listen!_ " Mycroft stopped and pulled his hands away from the keyboard. In his most bossy big brother voice, he snapped at his just turned thirteen year old brother, "You keep wandering around when you are playing and ignoring what I am doing. In fact, half the time, you've got your eyes closed. It's no wonder that we sound like we're playing two different pieces of music. Come around to the side here and just open your eyes long enough to watch what I am doing. This is a _duet_. You can't just play any old timing you want to, we have to be together."

Sherlock pulled his bow away from the strings and turned around to look at his brother. "Why? Why do I have to watch you? Why can't you watch me, and keep to _my_ timing?"

"Don't be stupid. The piano is the backbone of this piece, the violin just the accompaniment."

"I disagree. My tutor Pavlo says it's a violin solo with piano accompaniment; you get the base line, the boring bits."

Mycroft had rolled his eyes. "He's a violinist, Sherlock. He would say that. It doesn't make him right. Besides, you should follow my lead because I am the better musician of the two of us."

 _Not for long._ Competing against his brother had become the touchstone of Sherlock's musicianship. Never mind that Mycroft was seven years older. He didn't have time to practice as much as Sherlock did, so he was catching up fast. Pavlo wanted him to take the Level 7 exam; Mycroft had passed that in piano when he was fifteen.

Sherlock decided that he didn't like playing with his brother. "No, you're not; you're not better than me. You have to _look_ at the music; that's why you can't keep your eyes on me to follow my lead."

Mycroft pushed himself back from the piano and stood. "Unlike you, brother, I have other things to do, and more important things to remember than a piece of music I was only playing because I thought you might benefit from learning how to play _ensemble_. But, it appears that you are not ready for such collaboration. I will speak to your music tutor and see whether he can find someone willing to convince you of the need to work together." Mycroft collected the music and filed it in the Canterbury beside the piano. "In any case, I'm off again in a week's time, back out to Belize."

Sherlock scowled. "Why don't you leave now? I don't need you."

"You'll never be a good musician if you don't learn to bend to the needs of others, Sherlock."

The new CD recording was just over eleven minutes long. Once he was able to stuff his memory of Mycroft at the piano back in its box and under the bed in a little used room of his Mind Palace, Sherlock could settle down to enjoy the music. Tamsin's playing was exquisite- and Sherlock enjoyed the fact that the pianist was obviously deferring to her timing. Still, it was annoying that no one had yet recorded a very rare version that he'd heard about. Pärt had written _Fratres_ for a string quartet and for the violin and piano, but there was historical evidence of a score for solo violin. It was SO annoying that the Music Library didn't have it. He'd been willing to risk going to Belgravia, just in the hope of finding the score. At first being so close to South Eaton Place scared him. But then he'd realised his mistake- he'd be safe at the library. _Mycroft's too bloody busy and important these days to play the piano._

Without the score, he'd just have to do it himself. Buy some blank sheet music paper and write it out, a version for violin only. That made him smile. A solo version of a piece about brothers- how ironic was that? He smirked, deciding that if he could get it done in time, he would send it to his brother in an unmarked envelope, no return address or post mark: _Merry Christmas, from your ex-brother._ Perhaps Mycroft would get the hint and leave him alone, so he wouldn't have to skulk around London trying to stay invisible for much longer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Holmium strongly absorbs neutrons, it is used as a "burnable poison" in nuclear reactors, as a way of helping to maintain the efficiency of the fission reactions. It slows the initial reactivity of fresh fuels, depleting slowly over time and keeping the reactions steady. As such, Holmium is an essential ingredient of nuclear fuel rods, prolonging their life. Relationships between the Holmes brothers can be equally toxic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: warning for drug abuse, and underage sex. Don't like? Don't read.

(1)

Steven Mason sniffed. It was an irritating kind of sniff, but one he had no control over. The aftermath of a serious cocaine session last night, the sniff was just one of the side-effects he was trying to deal with. The day job could be mind-numbingly boring, and offered no distraction from the antsy discomfort of coming down. But, he consoled himself that this would be the last time he'd be doing this, now that he had a new assignment. At least here in the control room of the Peter Jones store at Sloane Square, there was no one giving him grief about his dripping nose and fidgety legs. He'd claimed he was getting over 'just another cold' when the Security Manager brought him to the room and showed him the ropes. He was an agency worker from SecureCorp, brought in to fill a temporary gap in their defences, due to the number of their security staff down with winter colds and flu.

He sat watching the screens in the darkened room. From experience, he knew that only three of the nine were likely to show any shoplifting going on- the women's clothing and accessories, the china department with its cut glass and silver, and the audio and TV department. Not that anyone made off with one of the huge TVs, but with the arrival of the new portable music players and the laptops- Toshiba, Compaq and IBM versions had been the big Christmas hits- alongside the expensive SLR cameras from Nikon and Canon- well, the place had a magnetic attraction for every light-fingered techie in town.

Mason was very good at his job, and came with impeccable references- after all, he had been a member of the Metropolitan Police Force for eight years, with the Drug Squad- until a chance encounter with a stray bag of cocaine had changed his appetites, and eventually led him to resign before he got caught pilfering the goods he was supposed to be impounding as evidence.

He had come to like the security work even better than the police work. It was a nine-to-five job- only on Thursday late-night shopping did he ever have to work a longer shift, and that was over by 9 o'clock. So no late nights or sudden cancellation of all police leave whenever there was a London team football match that turned ugly between fans. The time off gave him the opportunity to indulge his cocaine habit and to enjoy the lifestyle choice that he had worked so very hard to keep secret from his fellow officers at the Met. The 1990s were not a good time to be gay in any job, but the police were notoriously homophobic.

Tall and well-built, Mason had straight brown hair and hazel eyes over a face leavened with a sprinkle of freckles on his cheeks. It helped him look younger than his nearly forty years. When he was at the Met, he'd kept himself fit, but too many hours in a chair watching screens was just starting to take a toll on his waistline. He knew that he had to get shot of the lifestyle soon, or he'd lose forever the chance to regain the six pack appeal that had kept him in boyfriends over the years. He was in between relationships at the moment, and more than a little frustrated by that fact. As he watched the screens in the darkened control room, the limited number of pre-Christmas shoppers out at this early hour posed no threat. He allowed his thoughts to return to the extraordinary proposition made to him the night before.

John Smith had met him at a pub on Argyll Street- a bit upmarket, just off a heaving Oxford Street thronged with crowds goggling at the Christmas lights and shop window displays. The pint of boutique Czech pilsner that he favoured when he was flush with cash was waiting for him on the bar, alongside the man who had changed his lifestyle by getting him the job at SecureCorp.

The pub's sound system was pumping out carols, and there was a works Christmas party going on in one corner, the women and blokes in suits pulling crackers and laughing at the silly paper hats and cheap toy prizes.

Stephen slid onto the barstool next to the short grey haired Smith and took the first long pull of the liquid gold down. Once the cold alcohol hit his stomach and gave his brain something else to think about other than how much he wanted a line of cocaine, he turned to Smith.

"To what do I owe the honour of a personal visit _and_ a beer?" He said it lightly, but there was an underlying wariness. He hoped that he hadn't done anything wrong, anything that might lead the man to end their arrangement.

Smith gave him a reassuring smile. "I have no complaints. Just wanted to talk to you about another opportunity that has come up, one that I think will suit you to a tee."

"I'm listening." And he was, too, because Smith had changed Steven's life for the better. Being a bent security guard involved very little effort for a whole lot of reward. Every few strategic erasures of a CCTV camera added a lot to his take home pay; or, rather, to the box of cash he used to score his drugs. It was like an irresistible pull. He knew it was poison, but he was an addict and he'd do just about anything to chase the next hit, to keep the burn going, the rush and pull of the drug in his bloodstream. Someday, he knew that he'd lose the balance, get so into the drug as to be unable to cope with its toxicity, and the poison would stop him cold. Until then, however, he liked the challenge of keeping the lifestyle running hot while appearing to be coping. He could control it, he kept telling himself.

Smith took another sip of his own pint, before saying, "Mason, what would you say to a chance to indulge your particular appetites? I have a young man I would like you to ruin. Introduce him to your drug of choice, teach him the delights of sodomy and get him hooked on both. Train him to be a high-class rent boy. And, you get paid in all the cocaine you want, and whatever sex you can talk him into."

For a split second, Steven thought the former red cap was just pulling his leg- offering him a vision of paradise to tease him about his weaknesses. He gave the older man a suspicious look. "Playing Santa Claus then?"

"For real. 100% pukka. It's a contract. And easy, because I've already got him in my network. So, all you have to do is move in with him; I've got the flat sorted. I'm spinning him a story about wanting him to look at how I manage the stolen goods end. He's been working in the Catford Crew."

Stephen knew exactly who Smith was talking about. _The kid_. The one that Doug Hatton was using to fork lift his little team into the big time league. Mason had been the bent security guard in the control room during their recent hit on Fenwick's. Jamie Smee had placed him there and Steven had pocketed his 5% commission on one of the richest hauls in twenty minutes that he'd ever witnessed. He'd studiously erased every image of both Dougie and the tall 'girl' who had scouted the routes the day before.

Just to be sure, Steven asked, "You mean the kid who's into dressing up as a girl?" He'd not spoken to the youth, but watched his performance on the CCTV tape. "That guy should get an Oscar for best drag performance, but he's a bit young for my taste, and I'm not into transvestites."

Smith snorted. "It's an act, Steven, just a great disguise. Lars turns seventeen in less than a month, so is no kid. And he dresses the part for the reckie; he's not a tranny."

Steve thought about it, and decided that the lure of the cocaine was the real draw. So, he nodded, but added, "I don't do rape. And I don't force feed anyone drugs." He had his morals. Whatever life-style choices he had made, they were his.

"I'm not asking you to do either. Just see if you can get that curiosity of his going. Lead him into temptation and do not deliver him from evil. Once he's high, he'll be more amenable to experimenting with sex. You know the drill, after all."

 _Too true_. It was the reason why Steven left the force. A victim of a mugging had struck up a relationship with the cop who had rescued him. Unfortunately, the cop was Steven, and he'd ended up in the sack with the first year university student, both of them high as a kite and sex starved. When Mason tried to end it two weeks later, the young man had sworn he'd file a complaint with the Met. It was one of the reasons that Steven had resigned from the force.

"What's in it for me?"

This earned him a smirk from Smith. "What, besides the free drugs, crash-pad and unlimited sex?"

Mason didn't answer.

"You drive a hard bargain." But Smith said it without malice. "Think of it as an all-expenses paid Christmas holiday. Spend 24/7 over the next three weeks in the sack with the kid. Food, drink and drugs on endless tap. And I will cover your earnings for the period that you aren't on SecureCorp's books, so, you don't lose any of your regular pay packet. I'll get Smee to say that you've been called away to a sick aunt in Australia, and you'll be back at work before the end of January. And this time, unlike with your mugging victim, I'll take him off your hands at the end. He won't be able to come back at you or find you."

Steven was mystified. "Why would you do this to the kid? What has he ever done to you?"

" _I'm_ not doing anything; _you're_ the one who's doing it and you start the day after tomorrow, once you're off the Peter Jones job. It's a contract for a third party. Nothing to do with me, or you- just what someone else wants done. There are only a few things I require from you in exchange for this little Christmas holiday."

Mason was nearly at the bottom of his glass, tipping the last bit down his throat. "Such as?"

"You need to fuel his addiction to the point where he will do anything for a hit, but you need to keep sober enough yourself to keep him in the flat. Oh, and you'll have to let a photographer in after Christmas for a session."

"Oh, now I got you. It's a blackmail job. Who's the kid's family then?"

"No one you know, and the person after them is no one you _ever_ want to know, believe me."

(2)

The middle-aged former army man sitting across from Sherlock was telling a story about how he was getting hustled by some of his fences- the sales end of the stolen goods was going bad, and causing him problems, but he had not been able to figure out who and how the cash was being siphoned out. Sherlock kept getting stuck on the man's cuffs- frayed and out of keeping with the otherwise precision neatness, echoing a former life in uniform. His anxiety levels had been rising ever since he'd entered the room, because he was trying to figure out why the man would be asking him to do this.

"I'm going to trust you, Sigerson. I've never let anyone but me see what goes on in my books. Safer that way. But, I've not been able to figure it out, and I think you will. You're good at numbers and spotting patterns, so this should be just up your street. And while you're at it, if you've got any advice about how to improve the profitability of the different sides of the business, then I'm happy to hear your ideas. Think of this as a kind of short term accounting job."

Sherlock smirked at that idea. "A sort of management consultant? Well, it isn't like you can call up a real one, given your line of work." It sounded attractive. As uncomfortable as being with the Catford crew was, it was better than being on the streets. But, doing this work for Smith sounded better than dossing down with Douglas and Jules, so he'd have to give it serious thought. He decided to push his luck. "What's in it for me?"

Smith was quick with an answer. "What, apart from getting out from under the Catford crew? In addition to the chance to stay in a warm, dry, civilised flat instead of that dive? As well as a bonus if you save me money, and an even bigger one if you find the evidence of who's been creaming off what they aren't entitled to?"

Sherlock didn't even blink. "That's not enough. I want the best forged ID and driver's licence you can get me. Plus £1,000 in cash. Before I get started."

Smith's eyebrow went up at that. "Cheeky sod. Why should I do that?"

"Because unlike casing a store for others to rob, the offense of aiding and abetting your criminal activity is far worse if I get caught."

"Why upfront?"

"There's no honour amongst thieves."

Smith thought it over for a minute or two. The silence dragged out. Then, he nodded. "Okay, but I'm going to protect my investment. This is Steven Mason. He'll be with you in the flat. He's there to make sure that my stuff stays secure and you don't do a runner. So, you can't go out of the flat until you're done."

Sherlock weighed the pros and cons. If he took the job on, he could end up with the ID he needed to get out of his current state of limbo- and a whole lot faster than if he stayed with Doug and his crew. But it was riskier, too. On the other hand, he'd end up knowing a lot more about Smith's business, and he might be able to leverage that into being able to walk away. He was tempted.

"How long do you think this will take?"

"Well, it's Christmas; I don't expect you to work every day. In any case, the ID will take time- probably just after New Year, given the Christmas holidays. I figure this should take you less than a month."

"If I'm not allowed out, then I'll also need something else: a violin- reasonable quality. If I get one of those, then I don't need anything else."

Smith had looked a little surprised, but shrugged and said "Okay; I'll be Santa, whatever you need."

With ten one hundred pound notes snuggling in with the three hundred pounds he already had in his pocket, Sherlock was taken by the security guard to a one bed flat on the top floor of a smart apartment block on Richmond Terrace, N1. It was a good North London neighbourhood, sort of in between Camden and Islington, and being gentrified at the rate of knots by city bankers wanting somewhere close in. The flat itself was well furnished, warm and had a fully equipped kitchen that had been stocked with food. The contrast with the dive in Catford could not be stronger.

Mason made a point of locking the door from the inside, and putting the key on a chain around his neck. He looked a little embarrassed about it while Sherlock watched. "Just following the rules, Lars. I don't make them, but I know it's more than my job is worth if anyone breaks in to steal Smith's stuff or you get any funny ideas about leaving."

"I'm not going anywhere soon." Sherlock sat down at the desk, eyeing the Mac computer with delight. It was spanking new and top of the range. He'd missed a computer.

He spent the first three days pouring over the first batch of Smith's books- all kept on floppy disks and fed into the computer, under the watchful eye of Steven. Anytime the guy tried to engage in conversation with him, Sherlock just told him to shut up. It bugged him enough to be under constant surveillance; he wasn't about to engage in idle chatter just to stop the guy from being bored.

The third time it happened, the man snapped back, "Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?"

Sherlock didn't look up from the screen. "Yes, but only to those who deserve it. You're just a glorified babysitter. Bit of a comedown for a former police officer, but then I suppose that's what you get for abusing drugs."

"What do you know about that?!"

"Well, the police officer part is easy- I've just spent three months spotting the type, on behalf of a set of shoplifters. Your preference for drugs is easy too- skin around your nose is dry, your hand is shaking and you've got a filthy headache, or at least you're acting like it, probably due to the fact that you haven't taken whatever it is you take for a while. So why don't you just do that and leave me alone?"

Mason seemed to consider Sherlock's comments for a moment, and then shrugged. He checked the doors and windows rather blatantly, and then disappeared into the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, when presumably the man was indulging in his habit, Sherlock slipped away from the desk, and prowled, looking for a hiding place for the cash and his ID. He found what he was looking for- in the corner of the room, under the side table alongside the couch, the carpet was not tacked down fully. He worked it up and slipped in the cash and ID between a folded piece of paper from the computer printer. He didn't really trust Mason or Smith. Once he knew more about what the books said about the man's business, and he got his new documents, then he would figure a way out. So he went back to work.

They were not disturbed; the only visitor the next day was a delivery from one of Smith's men- groceries, a bag of paperbacks for the guard, the next batch of computer disks and a violin. Sherlock didn't open the case, but kept his attention on the Mac; he was starting to find some very interesting data.

"Why a violin?" The security guard looked genuinely puzzled. "And now that you've got it, why don't you want to play it?"

"Work first. Once I've started making sense of this, then I will play."

"You know, for a kid, you're pretty full on. Don't you ever relax? Take it easy?"

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. "Why would I want to do that?"

Steven just laughed out loud. "Maybe, because it's fun? Jeeze, Lars, what do you want to be when you grow up? You'd better start having fun when you're young; life's just going to get a whole lot more boring the older you get."

"I want to be a chemist. Science- it's what I'm good at. That and music, but I damaged my wrist, so I can't do that professionally anymore."

Steven nodded. "Music? When I was your age, I wanted to be a rock star- you know, go touring, see the world, play the guitar, drink, take drugs and have fun."

Sherlock snorted. "Boring- and a waste of time." He turned back to the computer, and slipped in the next floppy disk. Sherlock was starting to worry; the material on the first set of disks showed just how big a business Smith was running. Anxiety about being involved was something that he was trying to push to the back of his mind, but it kept creeping in. _Focus- one thing at a time; figure out the solution to his problem and then use it to buy your way out._ He scribbled a few notes on the pad next to him, and then swapped out the floppy disk for a new one.

Sherlock watched Mason slip into a routine. _The weakness of a security guard; they just LOVE routine._ He always kept the third floor flat door locked from the inside with the key on the chain around his neck, then retreated to the bedroom. Sherlock had waved dismissively- "I don't need a bed; by the look of it, you do." Most nights, Sherlock merely cat-napped on the sofa, never more than twenty minutes. He was not comfortable with Steven being around when he slept, but once in the bedroom, he knew the man would snort a couple of lines to stay happy while he read his trashy novels, before falling asleep. Jules had done the same. Sherlock just hoped that the guard would leave him alone when he was high.

On the third day in the flat, Sherlock needed to think through what he had read, so he just sat and thought. Steven tried to start a conversation, curious about why he'd stopped.

"Just shut up and piss off, I'm thinking." By the third variation of that exchange it was getting seriously annoying, so Sherlock retreated to the sofa, plugged in his Walkman and headphones. Mason decided to watch a football match on TV. At eight o'clock the guard phoned for some take-away to be delivered, and ate it while watching some dumb film. Sherlock left his plate untouched, just poking at the computer occasionally before retreating to the sofa to think some more.

At ten, Steven got up from the couch. "Time to give it a rest, Lars."

"Go away."

That provoked a scowl, and the door to the bedroom was shut a little more firmly than necessary. The instant it did, however, Sherlock was up off the sofa and sliding into the chair in front of the Mac. He pushed in a new empty floppy and started to type at the rate of knots. He had a lot to squeeze in, and didn't want the guard to be looking over his shoulder or trying to figure out what was going on.

When the bedroom door opened again almost nine hours later, it was accompanied by a shout.

"Turn it down, kid! Not everyone likes Radio Three at full volume!"

Mason was pulling up the zip on his jeans as he came into the living room. Sherlock could see his reflection in the mirror on the wall, so he didn't turn around. The older man stopped in the doorway, with a look of amazement on his face.

"Bloody hell; you some kind of prodigy or something?"

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, playing the violin in the morning sunshine. He was nearly finished with the last movement of the Bach partita. Steven watched, spellbound, until eventually the last note floated away. He started to clap, slowly.

Sherlock spun around and eyed him warily, "Sorry; forgot you were trying to sleep."

Steven grinned. "Well, it sure beats waking up to an alarm clock. Want some breakfast?" Before Sherlock could give him an answer, the older man went into the kitchen. Mason put the kettle on and pulled the teapot over.

After putting the violin back in the case, he padded into the kitchen, his bare feet feeling the cold of the linoleum tiled floor. "Just a little milk, two sugars."

That made the older man smirk. "Like builder's tea then? I would have thought a posh kid like you would have more refined taste."

It was a tease, but Sherlock didn't care, he slid onto the stool at the kitchen table and plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl, taking a big bite.

Steven slid a mug of tea toward him. "There's sugar and milk on the counter; do your own sodding tea. I'm going to do myself a full English, want to join me, or maybe just an egg?"

Around the crunch of apple, Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. After swallowing, "toast- just brown toast." He stirred two spoons full of sugar into the tea, and a splash of milk.

"Did that come with a please, or did your mother really never teach you any manners?"

Sherlock threw him a scowl. He took another big bite of the apple, and started to chew.

Steven sniffed. "I'm not your mother, but you haven't changed your clothes or had a wash in two days. Take a shower while I cook."

Sherlock wasn't all that keen on the scent of frying egg and wouldn't mind putting some distance between his nose and the kitchen. Come to think of it, this flat's plumbing was a vast improvement on the Catford place. He wandered off down the hall. A bath would be good. It might slow his brain down. he was still fizzing from the night's work. He took his tea with him.

Later, as he finished his toast and drank his second cup of tea, Sherlock realised that Steven was watching him while finishing his plate of egg, bacon, sausage and toast. He'd only had time to towel his hair dry and it was now curling in the heat of the flat. He didn't like the way the man was staring at him- it made him feel uncomfortable. In fact, he was starting to feel quite odd. Sherlock suddenly stood up and walked into the living room, a bit unsteady on his feet. His sensory perception was totally out of kilter. _No, not a meltdown! There's nowhere to hide._

Steven followed, with a curious look on his face.

But this didn't feel like a meltdown; it was different from anything he'd ever felt before- Sherlock was sort of floating. Even the threat of a meltdown should have made him anxious, but he didn't feel like that at all. The sunlight coming in through the window caught his attention. It was beautiful, stunningly beautiful. In fact, it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. When he looked back at Steven, it was with realisation in his eyes. "You've _drugged_ me. What…what is it?"

Steven just smirked. "New, just started appearing on the club scene, better than speed. It's called GHB." He smirked. "The former cop in me wants to call it GBH, but it isn't actually Grievous Bodily Harm. Just relaxes you a bit. Drugs aren't a poison, you know. They can be managed, just enough to keep the fires burning. it was a low dose; you looked like you needed to relax."

The odd thing was, Sherlock was relaxing. For the first time since he'd entered the flat, the anxiety of trying to figure out what was going on had faded. Smith's need to find a culprit was real; that much he'd proved last night. Maybe there was no ulterior motive. Steven hadn't jumped on him, or done anything other than stay out of his way. He was harmless, not another Jules.

Twenty minutes after downing his tea, Sherlock was wide-eyed, relaxed and open to suggestion. Steven was happy to oblige. "Let me brush your teeth." With a puzzled look, Sherlock watched curiously as Steven laid out a line of cocaine on the coffee table and then wet his finger, and loaded up the tip of it with the white powder. He cupped the boy's chin gently in his left hand, and said "open wide, let the pleasure inside." Obediently, Sherlock opened his mouth, and Steven rubbed the cocaine onto his gums. As he finished, the boy's lips clamped down and his tongue encircled the finger, greedily seeking more.

"Hmm- you like that?"

"Numb- makes my mouth numb." Sherlock giggled, "like a dentist, but with no pain from an injection or horrible drill."

"Give it a while and it will do more than that."

A couple of minutes later, Sherlock stopped caring about anything other than what was going on in his head, and how it was affecting his body. He marveled at what he was discovering. For the first time ever in his life, the onslaught of sensory data just slowed down to a manageable flow. His brain could actually keep up. The nuclear chain reaction that always kept him anxious, on the edge of a meltdown, was now under control. He was filled with a sense of power, in charge of himself for the first time ever. It was just an _amazing_ feeling.

When the older man put his hand on Sherlock's arm, he just looked down at it, surprised.

"You alright with that?" It was said gently by the older man.

Sherlock processed the words, and looked at the hand intently. "Yeah. And that's…that's really weird. I don't like being touched. Never. But…it's not the same." He looked up with a crooked smile. "This is really strange. I feel good, really good. Is this what _normal_ feels like?"

Steven smiled. "Yeah, I guess it is. You're the scientist, want to experiment and find out what else is different?"

"Oh, yes, please."

(3)

The four envelopes were mixed in casually with the rest of the post. Mycroft didn't notice them at first. Miss Foster always picked up the daily delivery from the doormat of Number 10 South Eaton Place and put it on a silver salver, which sat on the console table in the entrance hall. She'd also put any telephone messages that had come for him when she was able to pick up. In the day and age of telephone answering machines and voice mail, Mycroft had learned to appreciate the old tradition of having a real person at the end of his home phone.

She had once been the chief housemaid at Parham, until his father died. Then Mrs Walters, the housekeeper, suggested it would be good for Meggie Foster to come up to manage the London townhouse. He was away at the time overseas, but Sherlock used the South Eaton address while he was on exeat from Harrow, or during the summer vacs. Foster was a spinster in her late forties. Neither tall nor short, thin nor fat, she was remarkably ordinary in appearance, apart from a kindly set of eyes under her plain brown hair, and a patience learned from looking after her own aged parents, both farm workers on the estate. She'd never married and gone into service at the estate to be there for them when they retired to the tiny tied cottage in Cootham.

"A safe pair of hands, M'Lord," was how the housekeeper had described her. "She won't get in the way, but she'll be there when you need her. The house will be impeccably managed in your absence and kept ready for you and your brother." It had been decided at his father's funeral. Mycroft knew that he had somewhere between eighteen months and two years' more overseas service to put in, but after that, he hoped that work would keep him in the UK more.

Mrs Walters somehow knew all that without asking. It made him appreciate yet again that she had been there as a feature of his life since he was a child. His mother's bedrock during her last illness, and now she would be the lynchpin of Parham while he was away. "When you get back, if you think Foster is working out, then you can promote her to housekeeper. She's a dab hand at cooking scratch suppers for a bachelor like you, although Cook will insist on coming up from Parham if you entertain at the townhouse."

Mycroft had learned over the years to defer to Mrs Walters' judgment. She was rarely wrong about people, and Margaret Foster was no exception. Now that he was back in London, he had learned to appreciate her quiet presence. The townhouse was always immaculate, and he did not have to spend any time thinking about mundane matters. Laundry and cleaning got done, repairs were made, the house ticked over like a well-oiled machine, and he was grateful. Especially these past few months, when every moment he had when he wasn't at work, he was spending trying to find his brother.

Miss Foster had her own suite of rooms on the lower ground floor, alongside the kitchen and utility room. The two of them had worked out a routine. If he was planning on an evening meal at the house, he would tell her. At least three times a week, he dined at the Diogenes, so her duties were light. She would prepare a supper for herself and the chauffeur, Ron Stimpson. The two of them were both second generation Parham staff. Mycroft's mother had a habit of instilling loyalty, and the children of her employees were happy to find work with the next Viscount. When he was younger Ron had been a farm worker, but proved to be an excellent driver- and his discretion could be utterly counted upon. Having a chauffeur in London might seem an extravagance, but Mycroft loathed public transport. The crush of so many bodies, packed like sardines into tube trains or buses just repulsed him. And there were issues about working in the back of a taxi when he was carrying classified materials or speaking on his mobile. His conversations needed to be secure. So, at no expense to the government, he kept a car and driver. Stimpson was accommodated in the tiny studio flat over the garage at the back of the house, facing onto the mews lane.

He'd also been a godsend when trying to find Sherlock. Off duty, Stimpson walked; he loved exploring London. And he decided to do his part in the early days of the search by looking out for homeless people. A former rugby player at Pullborough, he had no fears about going places and sticking his nose into what was going on. In the early days, before Mycroft hired Research Associates to get more people on board to do the leg work, he and Ron had visited shelters, hospitals and soup kitchens. Despite the fact that one of them was a peer of the realm and the other a West Sussex farmer's son, the need to find Sherlock drew them together.

Tonight his brother was on Mycroft's mind- even more than usual. He'd had supper at the Diogenes club, meeting with Paul Hawker in the Strangers' Room to get the latest situation report, which was depressing. The PI said that it was only a matter of time that they made another breakthrough. After the Music Library sighting, Hawker was now more positive. "From the description we know he's alive and well. I'm just sorry that Christmas didn't make a difference. It's a time when family memories are hard to ignore. It's been known for even the most determined run away to send a card or even call home."

Mycroft had his doubts, which had unfortunately been proven right. Sherlock's memories of Christmas were not pleasant. Nor had he returned to the Victoria music library. Despite circulating a more up to date description- one that had him better dressed and with a Walkman- no library, concert venue or music store in London had reported seeing him. Mycroft spent a terrible Christmas and New Year at Parham, getting more frustrated than ever at his inability to find his brother. A week ago the sixth of January came and went; Sherlock was now seventeen.

Standing in the hallway of the townhouse, he looked at the post on the salver. Mycroft had stopped thinking that Sherlock might write him a letter one day. Even so, every time he went through his post, he was reminded of that fact, and it just rubbed salt into the wound of his worry about his brother.

"Good evening, m'Lord. I've lit a fire for you in the library to keep you warm. It's cold out there tonight."

"Evening, Miss Foster. There was no need for you to wait up for me; it's late." He handed her his coat and umbrella.

"I was wondering, sir, if you would mind me taking tomorrow off instead of Sunday. I've been asked to look after my cousin's daughter for the day, because she has to go to a wedding."

"Of course, Miss Foster. I've nothing special planned."

"Thank you , m'Lord. I appreciate it. I'll say goodnight then."

As she went to the back stairs, he swept up the pile of letters and headed for the library. He'd re-modelled his father's study, now it was book-lined and snug, a gentleman's refuge, very different from the more luxurious sitting room on the next floor, with its grand piano and the antique furniture that reflected his mother's taste. Immediately after his father's funeral, he had taken great care to eliminate as much evidence of the man's occupancy of the house as he could. Not just for his sake, but also for Sherlock's. He didn't want his brother to be constantly reminded of their father.

The wood fire was a luxury rare in Belgravia; he stretched out his feet and put them on the small stool, setting aside the pile of post. _Later; I need to think._ The S &ILS meeting had been a ferocious battle of wits between the watchers and the interventionists. His natural disposition was that of a watcher. But the main proponent of intervention, FS Ford, had all but accused him personally of being "slothful". While his own department head had defended the report's cautious approach, with some hindsight, Mycroft was beginning to think that Ford was right. He'd been slow to build his case against the man, too slow. He was caught between running the risk of being discovered and doing nothing. Was his risk aversion turning into an excuse to look the other way? Was he ducking the inevitable explosive reaction when his half-brother discovered that he was being stalked? When had Mycroft crossed the line between being careful and pure cowardice? Ever since Ford had revealed who he was and what his agenda was five years ago, Mycroft had known that the chain reaction of their conflict would eventually come to a full blown confrontation. Subconsciously it was always there, but he'd done precious little to prepare for it.

He sighed. Self-flagellation was not a pastime that he often pursued. He poured himself a finger of scotch and poked the fire up a bit. He decided to allow himself to be distracted by the mundane- like that pile of post. He picked it up and shuffled through the items: a few bills, a bank statement, something from the estate manager, a couple of invitation cards that he would no doubt refuse- always politely, but he really had no time for the social niceties that accompanied his title.

The four plain envelopes mixed in among the others caught his eye- seemingly identical, typed rather than hand-written- to "M Holmes". But he instantly knew that each of them was odd- no stamp, no postmark, and no evidence of having been handled by the sorting machines. They were too thin to be carrying anything dangerous- not a "suspect package", not that he'd ever considered the possibility of being a target for such a weapon. In each case, the identical envelope was a cheap one, the sort that could be bought anywhere at a corner newsagent shop. He went to the desk and got his letter opener. Picking one of the four up, he slit the side carefully and peered in.

Not a letter- a photograph. He shook it out onto the desk, being careful not to touch it. It fell face down, revealing a typed stick on label with an odd word: "Sight"

Puzzled, Mycroft used the letter opener to flip it over.

It was a close-up photo, very close up, of a single eye- the image filled the whole 5X7 print. As soon as he saw it, he knew whose eye it was. The iris was unique- a dark blue rim, then light, almost turquoise, with irregular splashes of hazel closer to the pupil. At the top, a larger, darker patch of brown. His brother's right eye. He knew it even better than he knew his own. Sherlock's eyes were an extraordinary colour and he'd seen his brother looking at him often enough. Mycroft knew that Sherlock favoured very few people with a direct look because like many on the Spectrum, he did not often seek eye contact. While that had improved as his brother grew up, there were still few people apart from him who would know in such detail the unique properties of Sherlock's eyes.

Once he realised whose eye it was, the next shock was that the pupil was dilated very widely. It appeared to have been taken under bright light, yet the pupil was almost blown, as if he was drugged. _Who has sent this and what does it mean?_

Mycroft sat down rather heavily in the chair at the desk and looked at the photograph, worried in a whole new way. The other three envelopes sat on the desk top, accusing him silently. Abruptly, he decided he needed to be professional about this, so he went upstairs and got his tweezers from his bathroom. Then a journey down the stairs to the kitchen, where he pulled a handful of plastic ziplock bags out of a drawer, before heading back up stairs.

After using the tweezers to insert the contents of the first envelope into his makeshift evidence bag, he carefully opened the next envelope. This one also held a photograph. The label on the back said, "Touch". The image was another close up- his brother's neck. Mycroft recognised it instantly from the mole on the right side, just level with the adam's apple, and then a set of two different twin moles, much smaller and fainter, on the left side, lower down. When he was little, Sherlock used to claim they were snake bites, and then he read about vampires and decided they were vampire bites. He got a lecture from Mycroft about skin blemishes as distinguishing marks.

The worst part of this photo was the presence of someone else's hand, stroking his brother's neck. Mycroft struggled for a moment with the thoughts that its presence gave rise to, then focused. It was an older man's hand; that was certain. White, male. Big. Not a labourer's hand, but not well-manicured nails either, bitten down. Someone who spent a lot of time indoors- no tan to speak of. No ring. There was something casual in the gesture, but it also implied a kind of ownership or threat.

He took a deep breath. _Stop this; do not over-analyse_. Mycroft was being sent a message, and he needed to focus.

The third envelope yielded another photo, this time labelled "taste". A close up of a young man's chest. Mycroft could not be sure that it was Sherlock. The pale skin, only a few dark hairs and the lack of much muscle development suggested it, but the elder Holmes could not be certain. The pectoral area, left side only, shot at an odd angle, so that it made the boy's erect nipple obvious. And at the same time, the angle gave anonymity to the tongue that was extended and about to touch that nipple.

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, too horrified by the image his brain made of the next moment, the one not caught on camera. With a hand that did not want to obey the signals from his brain without trembling, he opened the fourth envelope.

This one was different. In addition to a photograph, the envelope also contained a small, sealed clear plastic packet. He could see inside a plain white piece of fabric. The accompanying photo was another variation on the senses theme. The label on the back was _Scent._ The photo was a close up of a young man's groin, with what appeared to be a white sheet strategically placed across his genitals. This was an area of Sherlock's body that Mycroft was not familiar with- at least not since he was a small child. But the skin tones of this figure matched the others, and the lighting was the same. So, logic suggested that the overtly sexualised photos were of the same person, taken at the same time as the one of the neck that was clearly Sherlock. _Or, that is what I am expected to believe_. He was aware of the fact that this could be a case of his emotions being manipulated. He set aside for later the question of who would be doing this manipulating and why.

On this last image, the now familiar hand was lifting the sheet, but the angle was such that the viewer (and the photographer, Mycroft realised) could not see under. He stilled himself, and then reached for the packet, opening it with the tweezers, in the hope of keeping any fingerprints intact. He brought it up to his nose and took a deep sniff.

 _Male._ It was a combination of scents. Sherlock was the one with the ability to ferret out scents; his hypersensitivity gave him an extra edge over Mycroft in this area. But, unlike his baby brother, this was a scent that Mycroft was familiar with, in a way that he had hoped Sherlock was not. This scent was sweat, semen and testosterone. The smell of sex.

He re-sealed the packet, and stared down at the desk. The images and the scent were like a poison, burning away his habitual composure, replacing it with a corrosive anger stronger than any emotion he had ever felt before. Even worse than the distress that had poisoned the last few years of his relationship with his father. In both cases, the cause was the same- Sherlock was being damaged by a third party. Whoever now had Sherlock, whatever that person was doing to his brother, Mycroft was going to find the guilty party and destroy him- utterly, with malice of forethought and with no mercy. It _enraged_ him in a way that he had never, ever felt before- a slow toxic burn that pushed every bit of restraint to one side in a visceral rush to _hurt_ whoever was doing this to Sherlock.

He considered who would have done the things implied by the photos, and even more important, who would be taking the trouble to send him the evidence. It was someone who was taking pleasure in discomforting both of the Holmes brothers. This was no casual power-play; it was designed to inflict damage not just to Sherlock, but also to Mycroft, who now knew that he would do anything, no matter what the law said, to destroy the person doing this. The ferocity of the emotion shocked him to his core.

In that moment came a revelation, a name crept forward out of the shadows. Mycroft had absolutely no proof, except an unscientific gut feel and the memory of a conversation in the Master of Balliol College's rooms: _Fitzroy Sherrin Ford_.

Then he picked up the phone and rang Paul Hawker's personal mobile. He was paying the investigators of Research Associates a small fortune, and this was concrete evidence that needed processing.

"Hello? Hawker speaking."

"Mister Hawker, this is Mycroft Holmes. Sorry to trouble you twice in the same night, but when I got home from the club, I found a series of envelopes had been delivered. Their contents suggest my brother is being held. This may be the start of a blackmail exercise, or a kidnapping. I need you to come and collect the evidence for analysis. There is something that needs to be tested for DNA. I can give you a sample of my own at the same time, to help you assess whether it is indeed my brother's bodily fluids."

"I'm on my way. And, Mister Holmes, I don't recommend that you contact the police yet. Let's see what the evidence says before they get involved."

In the thirty minutes between when he hung up and Hawker arrived, Mycroft kept wondering. Four of the five senses had been covered- sight, smell, taste, touch. When would he get to _hear_ what was happening to Sherlock? In the absence of any sound apart from the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the fire murmuring to itself in the grate, he finally let his imagination loose to think about what the photos meant and what he was going to do to the person who had sent them. He would always remember those thirty minutes, because they changed who he was and the man he would become for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: * If you are interested in what happened to Sherlock in the barn fire, see my story Musgrave Blaze.


End file.
